


Snowfall

by silvercolour



Series: Takarazuka prompts [9]
Category: takarazuka musicals, ひかりふる路 | A Passage Through the Light - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Maxime has thoughts about his revolution, Self-Doubt, they’re not great thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:35:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25001758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercolour/pseuds/silvercolour
Summary: Snow covers Paris, and doubts are forming in Robespierre’s head.Are they doing the right thing?
Series: Takarazuka prompts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781578
Kudos: 3
Collections: Guess the author: Yukigumi round





	Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Guess the author game over on discord! In the series you’ll find other fills I’ve written for previous rounds, have a look! There’s many different shows there!

Paris, 1792-1793

It was winter, and snow fell steadily over Paris.

Maxime stared out the windows of his study, eyes fixed somewhere far over the snow-covered rooftops. The snow gave the great, ancient city a quiet cloak, a coating of silence that continued to fall and whirl down from the skies. From his window he could see the churches caped in dignified white like wizened old grandparents, the houses big and small, making a matching family.

Earlier in the day, when he had opened the windows to breathe the cold, clean air for a few moments he had marveled. Was this the same air Paris was always filled with? It seemed impossible. Paris was old, and magnificent, but none would accuse her of being clean, even on the best of days. Paris was a city of people, filled to the brim with all walks of life- and sometimes even to bursting.

Yet the city beyond his windows was as transformed now as it had been several summers ago, though this change was not a manmade one. Maxime would not describe himself as a religious man, but he could not deny the majesty, and the almost sacred silence the snowfall brought with it.

The city below was quietly hibernating, where it would usually be boisterously alive, in markets and boats and little stalls along the river Seine, in churches filled with music and pubs filled with song. This Paris was resting, and waiting for the cold spell to pass, and to come alive again

To Maxime the waiting peace felt familiar. Despite the lack of people in the street, and the lack of the summer’s heat, it reminded him of those first days of their glorious Revolution. There was that same presence in the air of  _ readiness, _ of worried, or eager anticipation– of a change about to be inflicted upon the world.

And what a change they had made! His people, freed from the oppressive hand of the rich aristos and the churches who almost pretended to be kings. The rich had been stopped, or made to step down, to step back, and let the people of Paris, and all of France rule and be ruled by their own. And he did truly think of them as  _ his  _ people, the many, many who looked up to him, but also those who despised him.

Sometimes, on busy days, it worried him, how much these people looked up to him. They chanted his name, and his praises, just as they had for a king and queen they rarely saw, and would never meet. When new laws were announced on the Place de la République, or when important people were to be executed, they chanted  _ his _ name, they shouted for “le Robespierre”, and a fleeting, insidious thought would cross his mind that they were shouting for  _ his _ execution, for law to be brought against  _ his rule _ .

And it did feel like his rule. They had a Parliament, there were even different factions represented ( _ more like fighting, _ a thought popped into his head,  _ you ought to put a stop to that _ ). There were Committees, and quite a few of them ( _ too many _ , the voice in his head sounds like it's grinning), who take care of lots of practical aspects of the daily business of ruling their new République. _ And brutal- don’t forget the bloody aspect of your rule they take care of for you– _

Only on busy days would such treasonous thoughts cross his mind. Most days he had time to reason himself out of such thoughts before they could even begin. But on busy days? More and more often the thought would fall into his unguarded mind, unlooked for and decidedly unwanted.

Lately, it seemed as though he was always busy.

Maxime knew that what he had done, and what he was creating now, was the right thing. He knew it both in heart and in mind, yet the thoughts kept coming back. Like the snowflakes outside his window, each followed by the next.

There could be days, even weeks, where he did not consider anything of the sort, but the thoughts would be back sooner or later, regardless of how he reasoned himself out of their spiraling clutches. And every time they came back they seemed a little harder to be rid of.

Especially when they spoke to him in  _ her _ voice. Marie-Anne.

Why these intrusive thoughts should have her voice when the lady Marie-Anne has been nothing but kind to him he did not understand. Perhaps that part of his brain where self-doubt and such thoughts lived thought it would hurt more to hear the words from someone he cares for.

Because he does care.

And if his life had been different- if he had any spare time at all? He might have even tried to court her. He could almost see it, a small townhouse for them together, with a garden– perhaps not so small then, for no small parisian houses have gardens, but the garden seemed important to him. He feels as though it would be important to her too. A space that is outdoors, yet private. A place where they can be themselves. Together.

They could have friends over and sit outside, and talk until nightfall, or sit inside when the weather turns cold and fuel their discussion with warm drinks and warm hearts. A  _ home _ -

Thought stopped him short. A home? What was he thinking? He had no time for such idol or frivolous daydreams, no matter how pleasant they seem. He’s hardly going to propose ( _ proposition _ , a smirking voice in his head supplied, and for some reason the voice sounded like St. Just). And his lodgings here are perfectly adequate. 

His life had been busy even before he became a member of France’s National Convention. And now he had less time than ever. Less time, and more thoughts that fall, and tumble, and intrude into his mind

He was always busy.

And like his thoughts, the snow kept falling down outside his windows.


End file.
